7:47am: We just pulled out of the driveway. “I need coffee” I immediately said. “Yeah, I’m well aware of what everyone needs,” Henry snapped. Whoa. CRAPPY PANTS IS HERE, EVERYONE.

7:49am: Chooch is mad because Henry got a new phone (he’s been using an old person flip phone for the last few mths because his real one broke) and he wants to hold it so badly but Henry is like DONT START WITH THIS PHONE SHIT!! Kids and phones, amirite.

8:16am: I can’t believe I’m about to admit this but I succumbed to the basic bitch pressure and got a….pumpkin macchiato. I know! I’m the worst! I’m so predictable! But at least it wasn’t from Starbucks. In other news, I’m not being a bitch anymore because I got a pumpkin macchiato.

8:42am: I had planned on swinging by the Cincinnati area because I have always wanted to go to the Loveland Castle (and by always I mean for the 4 years I’ve known of its existence). Henry just had me look up the directions on Google maps so I clicked on the map thing in my Roadside America app and started crying because it said it was nearly 7 hours away and HOW WILL WE HAVE TIME so Henry got all huffy and said, “send me the directions!” So I did and he was like, “because these directions have us starting in MARYLAND, that’s why it says it’s so far away!”

While I was giggling, Henry said in a very weary voice, “How do you survive?”

8:59am: Chooch just came back with cheese curls from Sheetz and you would have thought I was asking him for a kidney, I hate him.

Oh for fucks sake, Henry couldn’t find the lemon packet things for his signature unsweetened iced tea, and some Sheetz lady JUST BROUGHT THEM OUT TO THE CAR FOR HIM BEFORE WE LEFT and Henry is SO FUCKING EXCITED ABOUT THIS and wants to write to Sheetz now except he doesn’t know the broad’s name.

He can just send them this picture of her then, I guess.

9:18am: I wonder how many hours of mocking Henry in a hick farmer accent before I finally pierce the barrier he mentally puts up between us. YOU CAN’T BLOCK ME OUT FOREVER, SWEET PEA.

9:51am: I hate when I start to like something Top 40ish and Chooch pops up from the backseat to tell me that they used to be a YouTuber, ugh.

10:42am: Stopped at rest area in some Ohio place and a man in a suit asked Chooch if his name was LESTER and then was crippled with disbelief when Chooch said no because HE LOOKS JUST LIKE SOME BOY HE KNOWS and as we left him in our dust, I could still hear him back there wow’ing in shock.

Obligatory rest stop bathroom selfie. If I look haggard that’s because I stayed up all night watching Danity Kane videos/Making the Band recaps on YouTube.

Meanwhile, I almost forgot that Chooch’s name was Lester back when we kidnapped him 10 years ago.

11:57am: Reminsicing about the time I listened to this Perfidious Words song on repeat for approx. 5 hours when I worked the late shift at my last job, and then accidentally became suicidal because of it. Henry is not enjoying this stroll down memory lane.

12:12pm: Henry is in another rest area, doing whatever he does in there, so Lester and I are talking behind his back. “He’s in such a bad mood today.” “I know.”

Just wait until we get to the castle! That’ll be sure to turn his frown upside down and back around into a greater frown.

1:38pm: well we just finished touring Loveland Castle and Henry is in an even worse mood, as predicted! The only time he smiled was when the guide mentioned THE SERVICE.

ASSHOLE ALERT.

Whatever. Lester had a good time in the castle.

1:43pm: Some broad in a car next to us at a red light sneezed so I said bless you and Lester is like SO EMBARRASSED.

2:13pm: we’re at Sugar & Spice for lunch and this place is a WONDERLAND.

Our waitress was this old lady who seemed concerned that no one had brought me my coffee 30 seconds after I ordered it.

“You had a coffee right?” she asked. “And no one brought it yet???”

I shook my head no, slowly, because I didn’t understand how anyone would know I ordered it when she was still standing there taking our order?

“Wait—did you just tell me that now?” She asked. “Oh, ha! I saw it there and forgot that I had just written it down.”

O.o

The restrooms were DOWNSTAIRS. I love when the restrooms are downstairs! This place was EVERYTHING!

I read about it on Roadside America and literally the only reason we went is because they give out FREE RUBBER DUCKIES. Chooch and I were so nervous that we weren’t going to get one and neither of us wanted to ask and Henry was like THIS IS ALL YOU DONT LOOK AT ME so finally I cleared my throat and asked the lady at the register if the duck thing was still a go, and she silently reached for a bucket on a shelf and told us to go on and take a rubber duck and Chooch nearly clotheslined himself against the counter in his overzealous rummaging.

4:58pm: Nothing noteworthy has happened in hours but we just made it to the hotel – some generic Radisson. Three hours until Artifex Pereo!!

6:51pm: just saw Jerry’s Junk and it was mildly cool but also pretty anticlimactic.

However, I bet that man has a TON OF SHIT that I would buy if he was selling. Meanwhile, Chooch casually asked me to put on Danity Kane, lol.

And Henry is having a blast telling Louisville drivers that they’re doing it wrong. “YOU CANT TURN LEFT ON RED!”

7:24pm: Benjamin the Lyft driver is taking us to the venue now and listening to him and Henry attempt to make small talk with each other is simultaneously killing me and giving me life. Also I couldn’t get my seatbelt to fasten so I’m just sitting here with my arm thru it like a sling.

8:52pm: Huge difference between me and Chooch: when I need to pee in a public place, I freak out and spend 25 minutes trying to build up the courage to look for the bathroom and then I hoarsely whisper to Henry WHERE DO YOU THINK THE BATHROOM IS OMG HELP. Chooch gets right up and sets out to find it himself.

10:32pm: This night is so excelsior. Every band has been wonderful, the venue is great, Henry is actually in a good mood and said that he liked the last band that played (Funeral Portrait) and now Artifex Pereo is about to go on and I’m so sweaty and Chooch is half asleep in a chair and all the Artifex guys keep asking him if he’s going to make it and it’s just good fucking vibes all over, can I stay in Louisville forever.

12:02am: Waiting for our Lyft driver, Nicholas, to pick our exhausted, sweaty asses up. I hope I lost weight. I SWEAT SO MUCH.

“There’s so much wrong with my body,” Chooch just randomly said.

12:23am: Nicholas returned us safely to our hotel (he was an A+ Lyft driver and gave us non-stressful conversation) and then we had cheerful banter with the ladies at the front desk because we’re all delirious from the hotbox that is New Vintage, and now I’m ready to get my Savasana on in this stiff-as-fuck bed.

PEACE OUT, GIRL SCOUT.

I was on the phone with everyone’s favorite frowner this morning, waiting to cross the street, when I heard from behind me, “Excuse me. Excuse me! Cat girl!”

At first I thought this person was calling me a fat girl, and I was ready to swing my purse at him, but then I remembered I’m wearing my cat blouse today. 

I sighed, took the phone away from my mouth, and gave him the attention he so desperately craved. 

“What time is it?”

The man was probably in his mid-to-late 40s, looked a bit like a disheveled, moderately slow David Letterman. Dressed in a t-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. 

I told him it was 7:49. 

“Ugh, really? Because they’re supposed to open at 7:30,” he said in a vague whine, gesturing over his shoulder to the R-Bar. 

Let me just say that while I enjoy getting grimey in the occasional dive bar, this is one bar I would probably never patronize. Even though it’s conveniently located a mere block from my house. 

(I think. I always get confused when it comes to blocks.)

I shrugged and said I was sorry, I couldn’t tell him why they weren’t rolling out the cigarette ash and peanut shell-encrusted red carpet for him when it was already 7:49 in the motherfucking AM. 

Hoping this would satisfy his urge for human contact, I began to pivot back toward the road. 

“Where are you going dressed like that, anyway?”

STOP. DO NOT ENGAGE. YOU KNOW BETTER, ERIN KELLY. 

Still, the words rolled out of my mouth like an unraveling Fruit By the Foot. It was too late to stuff them back in. 

“Work,” I answered in a cheerful voice I didn’t recognize me because now I was clearly possessed by the Demon of Small Talk. 

“Wow! Where do you work?!”

Guys, I’m wearing a freaking blouse thing with cats on it, and jeans because it’s Jeans Day. I’m not wearing hot pants and nipple tassels so I’m not sure why my attire was so fascinating to him other than the fact that he was probably already drunk. 

So now I’m second-guessing every decision I made since waking up that morning. Was I dressed inappropriately for work?! DID I LOOK LIKE A FOOL?! I mean, these are questions that you could probably answer yes to on any given day but this guy just made me feel like I was under a spotlight and should I go home and change into a cardigan??!! 

Well, I couldn’t go home because guess who doesn’t currently have a house key, so I guess the Law Firm people will just have to suffer through a day of seeing me in a CAT SHIRT. 

In spite of my better judgment, I mumbled, “A law firm” and then I turned and JAY-WALKED across West Liberty Avenue and you all know how much I hate jay-walking and how terrified I am of crossing the street when when the “ITS OK TO CROSS NOW, CHILD” light is flashing. He was just beginning to lean in too close to me and my paranoia was turning my mind into a flip book of crime scene photos. I guess if I was going to die today, I’d rather get hit by a car than sodomized and stuffed in a suitcase by some early rising wino. 

When I resumed my conversation with Henry, he was already laughing. “What was that all about, were you getting hit on?”

Yep, by all the best locals. 

I walk-ran to the shuttle stop, which is another story for another time (there’s an Old Broad that I’m at war with). A few minutes later, just as the shuttle pulled away from the curb, I saw Drunk Letterman shambling toward the sidewalk I had been standing on 45 seconds prior. He stopped right in front of Albert’s Bar, also not open yet. 

By the time I made it to work, I was fucking exhausted. Talking to strangers is so hard. 

I wonder where that guy is drinking right now?

Ever since forever, it’s been tradition to get a Golden Nugget ice cream cone at Kennywood. I mean, I’d like to break tradition and get THREE ice cream cones at Golden Nugget sometime, but who knows what kind of jinx (and pounds) that would put on me.

Probably have written entire dissertations on this subject in the past, but I don’t care. Golden Nugget needs some blog lovin’.

They use some kind of standard vanilla ice cream (Isaly’s maybe? I feel like I heard once that it was Isaly’s but I always make up a lot of things in the Imagination Station that is my head, so…), hand-cut into squares (I’ve seen them do it with my own eyes). It’s all a part of the process. Watching them cut it into the exact size needed to jam into the weird double-header cone, drooling as its dunked and drowned in the chocolate sauce bath, and then wringing your hands in an OCD fashion because you want every last centimeter to be coated when they roll that beast around in the designated topping.

It’s been a staple of true Kennywooders (?) since 1967, you guys! That’s a long ass motherfucking time.

I’ve literally never seen a Kennywood employee smile while making one of these which seems preposterous.

PREPOSTEROUS!

When Chooch and I stood in line, I started to sweat because I couldn’t remember how to order them. WHAT WERE THEY CALLED?

“The Original,” Chooch said, pointing to the sign, but that didn’t sound right to me! I considered texting Henry to ask him what he calls them when he does the ordering, but figured he wouldn’t reply fast enough so I just stuttered, “Uh, two of the ice cream things…..um, with uh….nuts.”

“Yeah, THE ORIGINAL,” Chooch muttered under his breath.

SORRY BUT THAT DIDN’T SOUND FAMILIAR TO ME. Jesus Christ, do it yourself next time!

The broad (lol, she was like 16) making mine lost the original ice cream chunk when slapping it around in the tray of nuts, sighed, and started over with a new one.

“That’s basically the same week I’ve been having,” I said to her, and we kind of shared a laugh, sort of? But then I kept overthinking what I said until it just didn’t make any sense at all to me anymore and why do I bother speaking out of turn, am I right?

(OMG EW, you can see my reflection in that last picture. I just scared myself.)

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Idiot Chooch didn’t get a cherry on his ice cream cone (SORRY, ON HIS “THE ORIGINAL”) so he handed it right the fuck back and said, “I wanted a cherry.”

Damn son. You know how to go after what you want.

So that little shit ended up getting TWO cherries while I only got one, and he ragged me about that for the next two days. I don’t know where he gets his mean spirit from.

Do you think those people in the background are on a first date?!

I wish I always had one of these cones to camouflage my Leno chin. :(

Chooch’s ice cream review: “They’re really good. And also this year I didn’t get any on my face.”

Guys, when you come to Kennywood with me in your dreams, I’ll buy you one of these square cone things and then we can sit beneath a canopy of HAM SANDWICHES.

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Why is everything so terrible. This whole year has been rife with death and bad news, and today a friend got realllllllly terrible news and I’m just so sick of this year! Enough is enough! We’re all crying Uncle!

So here, watch my dumb cat Drew listening to The Lost Boys for 60 seconds because cats are good. 

Hug someone. Tell someone something good. Tell me something good—please!

Foxblood is: Chris Millward, Tom Beale, Aaron Beale, Stephen Powell, and Brett Powell.  Photo credit: unknowm.

Hailing from Melbourne, Australia, Foxblood is a metal band exploding with cinematic instrumentals, anthemic gang-chants, and soaring choruses. They have recently released two singles off their forth-coming album, and I’m stoked. I want everyone else to be stoked, too. Get stoked with me.

I first heard of this band in their previous incarnation, Glorified, because Chris used to work in the same department as me…just a million miles away in our Melbourne office! When I found out secondhand that he was in a band and proceeded to listen to everything I could find of theirs on YouTube, I was hooked. Not only was this my style of music, but it was fucking legit. So I sent him a fangirly email and have followed this band ever since, from Glorifed to Foxblood.

Brutally heavy breakdowns wrapped with brooding melodies and pulled tight and taut with a black bow of macabre lyricism (“Because love is the violence inside us all” resonates),  Foxblood is a hardcore present for your ears. It doesn’t matter what sorts of grandiose adjectives I string together, all you need to know  is that this band slays, and no matter what genre you want to cage them into, they’re going to blow the top right off of it.

There’s currently an Australian invasion happening Stateside, what with bands like Parkway Drive, Tonight Alive, and Hands Like Houses shaking things up and selling out shows, and I have my fingers crossed that Foxblood will soon be added to that list.

Chris was kind enough to take some time out and answer a few questions about the band, so please read up and get to know your new favorite band from Down Under!

1. On paper, it’s easy to say that Foxblood is just Glorified with a new name, but there’s no denying as a listener that this is an entirely new band, aesthetically and sound-wise. How did Foxblood come to be? 

It was born out of the notion that Glorified as an entity had run its course, as all things do. We ended up with a record that was unprecedented for all of us and we all felt as though Glorified would not do it justice under that particular moniker. It was also a writing process that I was involved in from the very start (coming into Glorified I replaced an old vocalist and I think that some of my creative influence took them in a different direction that what was expected). So I suppose it was a chance for all of us to put out a record as a blank slate, and Foxblood was able to be anything that we wanted, rather than pushing the whole “new sound” idea for Glorified, which by that point had been taken as far as we could, so here we are.

2. Splitting your time between the corporate world and the music industry has a very Clark Kent/Superman vibe to it. I just tried to imagine someone, anyone from our Pittsburgh office moonlighting in a metal band, and failed miserably! How do you describe your band to your co-workers?

We all work full-time in various professions, and it’s something I suppose we keep fairly separate in our respective lives because we all have careers outside of this project. I know that the pipedream is hoping your band makes it so that you never have to work a day again, but we are most certainly realists in that sense. Our jobs fund a polished product, and it’s something we are happy to do because there is genuine pride in what we’re doing as a musical entity. So as far as describing it goes – I usually just drop the word “rock” in there somewhere and tell them that if they look hard enough in the dark corners of YouTube they can see what makes me tick beyond the office. So unfortunately it’s quite a mundane superhero paradigm, but it keeps the gears turning somewhat.

3. What are the essentials you guys keep in your van/bus while touring? Would we find any Vegemite up in there? (SORRY, I HAD TO ASK!)

I’ll say on the record right now that every day I will eat a toasted cheese and Vegemite sandwich and have done so since I was very young, so if the shoe fits I figure that at least I can substantiate that stereotype just a little. In our van though? Usually we end up with a rising tide of empty water bottles because we buy them for no real reason at every stop, there’s usually beers on the go for the passengers so you’d see them a lot, and I carry a pharmacy with me full of stuff to fix any ailment from a headache through to explosive intestinal distress, so it’s quite a mixed bag really.

4. The masquerade girl and Devil appear in both of the videos that Foxblood has recently released, and it’s little details like this that set you apart artistically from many other bands. Was this something that you guys already had in mind while writing this record or did it just come together organically during the video process? Will we see them again in future videos?

I am all about the little details. And I think a goal for me at least was to create something that a listener could get a lot more out of than just listening to the song and watching the video. I think it’s important for there to be many layers to what you do creativity, and I think that someone can get as much or as little out of Foxblood’s narrative/music that they want. There is a lot going on in both the videos that you’d likely overlook on a first listen through, and I guess I’d encourage people who enjoy the music to look deeper into the way the videos are put together, it is all very deliberate and there is meaning in everything you hear and see.

5. What were some bands you listened to as a kid that helped shape you into the vocalist that you are today?

Everyone starts out by copying their favourite vocalists, as much as they’d not like to admit. For me I started when I was 15 because some guys I worked with were into metal and I’d just bought Tony Hawk’s Underground which had a great punk/metal soundtrack. So the first bands that pushed me down this road were Rise Against and Alkaline Trio, but I think I started out on “Let It Unfold You” by Senses Fail, where their singer has this disgustingly raw tone to his voice and so I just emulated that really, I never learnt any real proper technique, which kind of shows now that Foxblood has gone away from having certain sounding vocals at part x and y and just kind of tells a story and however it sounds is the way it comes out. So it was basically my inability to grasp the techniques that most vocalists use that paved the way to kind of experiment with my natural voice a little more to see what it could do.

6. Australia has been exporting some sick talent lately, particularly the type that hits that Warped Tour-scene sweet spot. What are some lesser-known local bands that us Americans should be adding to our play lists?

We’ve got it pretty good over here I won’t lie, but in truth I don’t actually listen to a whole lot of similar- genre (what you’d call “heavy” I suppose) bands (probably just me showing my age really). However, that said, I have been lucky enough to meet some incredibly talented and charismatic people though the course of being involved in music. Bands like Polaris, who have really exploded over here now (and rightfully so), as well as Young Lions (though neither of them are particularly “local”). In a way it’s a pity that they’ve all come so far, even our friends in Make Them Suffer and other bands in that tier now, it’s hard to call them ‘local’, but it is nice to see the rest of the world taking notice of these musicians, and it’s always good to see your friends succeeding on the world stage.

7. There’s something beautiful and haunting about heavy bands collaborating with female singers, a la Bring Me the Horizon and Lights.If Foxblood could work with any female vocalist, from any scene, who would be on your short list?

While I cannot speak on behalf of the others, a personal favourite of mine is Lauren Mayberry from Chvrches. Something I like doing is throwing curveballs to a listener, and so I think I’d someday like to work with a female vocalist in writing a duet, rather than a section of a song, so that they themselves contribute to the writing process, which I think would draw out the best from both parties. I think the concept of a guest-vocalist is trivialised somewhat in the sense that a section of a song is left blank and then filled in by the feature artist, which to me doesn’t do a lot of justice to collaborative potential and also the talents of the guest and the band themselves in having another layer to the piece. So to fully utilise that and come up with something special is most certainly something I’d like to do.

8. Now I’m officially crossing my fingers for a Foxblood/Lauren Mayberry collab! But now for the most important question of this whole damn thing: when can we expect the new album (and hopefully a US tour)?

I’m not 100% on what I can and can’t say here really, but there is a full-length record that has been a product of many years of our lives that will be coming out in the coming months, an exact date however I’m not sure. It’s called “The Devil, The Dark, and The Rain”, and yes, it directly relates to the characters in the video and the storylines that play out, both told and untold. It is all connected, all relative, and something we are very excited for people to hear and immerse themselves in. It is not far away. That I can promise. As far as touring goes, I think it’s just been jumping the mental hurdle of finally getting this record out, and what happens beyond that point I think is up to the listener. If travel and touring becomes a part of this, then I am sure we will be elated. At the moment, for me anyway, I’m just relieved to finally have music out there.

*******

Please, please, please give this band some of your time today. If you want to join me on Foxblood Album Release Watch, like them on Facebook for updates! To tide you over, their new single No Heroes is available for purchase on iTunes. If you need me, I’ll just be over here studying their music videos for more clues.

After proving that Chooch & I can be trusted to make it through a day alone at Kennywood, we decided to try it again this summer too. SPOILER: we made it again!

So this was last Tuesday when this shining example of bravery of Big Kid Pants went down. I took the day off work so that Chooch and I could get one last totally excellent day out of the quickly waning summer, and it was beautiful. The weather, the company, the crowd-level—the whole day was just so fucking GOOD.

(Except for Henry not being able to make oh there, but whatevelyn–we persevered without his calloused hand to hold.)

(Sorry, Henry, but somehow Chooch and I seem to get along better when you’re not around — probably because we’re not fighting for your attention. Sigh.)

We elbowed and shoved past a gaggle of shambling elder-zombies who were bottle-necking the damn entrance. Like, run guys! IT’S KENNYWOOD! Ugh, I hate people who aren’t in a hurry.

The first ride we went on was the Phantom’s Revenge, where I was reminded by the amused yet moderately concerned looks given to me by the guys in front of us that I am a fucking fool on this coaster. I don’t know why I even bother riding it because it feels like a death wish every time! But then it pulls back to the station and I’m like, “FUCK YEAH, I’M SO GLAD I SUGGESTED THAT WE RIDE THIS!” And Chooch is like, “Cool let’s go on again!” and I’m like, “Maybe next year.”

We did end up going on it again later and I think I sincerely alarmed the mom and young girl in front of us. My mouth man, I can’t stop what comes out of it on some of these rides.

This kid was in front of for the Exterminator and I couldn’t imagine why his parents were yelling at him for swinging on the railings and being generally spastic until Chooch finally said, “I think he’s alone” and then we panicked that he would try to ride with us, like that time we got saddled with some weird little kid on Delgrosso’s version of the Exterminator who wasn’t tall enough to ride without an adult, but thank god the ride attendants sent him off alone in his own car, BON VOYAGE MOTHERFUCKER.

I love that Chooch is at an age where he too dislikes children.

Noah’s Ark brought the whale back and changed a bunch of the interior which is a huge improvement but I can barely remember what it used to be like, so yay!

Stoked to be in a whale’s mouth or to be behind that striped ass? Only Chooch knows.

One thing didn’t change though: Chooch and I were giddy as fuck up in that ark. How can you not be? God, dark rides are just the best. I wish I was in charge of Kennywood. I would put in at least two more. Maybe have someone recreate the old Castle Dracula from Wildwood and 100% rebuild La Cachot so we could have new generations of devious children calling it the Lick-a-Shit like they invented it.

OK new life goal: OWN A DAMN AMUSEMENT PARK.

Don’t fuckin’ judge me, Noah!

Then it was Turtle Time!

Some mom-type turned to me in line for the Turtles and asked, “Are you guys having fun?”

Wow, how nice, I thought. That this stranger-mom cared about our fun quotient.

But it turned out she mistook us to belong with the school group that was there on a field trip.

“WE’RE THE CHARTER BUS 16 GROUP FROM MRS. BLAHBLAH’S CLASS!” the chattiest of the children said to me, like it was some sort of BRAG or something. Like, cool story, IDGAF?

Meanwhile, the chaperone had completely turned her back on us once it was revealed that Chooch and I were just commoners and not part of some stupid field trip.

That kid kept talking to me and finally Chooch was like, “MOMMY STOP TRYING TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH KIDS OMG.”

Well sorry that no one my own age wanted to talk to me!

Seriously though, we get such a fucking kick out of the Turtle and if you ever wanted to see Chooch and me in our true forms, this would be a good time. We practically choke and gag on our laughter but then Chooch unfailingly gets too close to the opening of the turtle and I start screaming, “MOVE OVER! YOU’RE GOING TO FALL OUT!” and he’s like, “OH, OK ‘MOM'” and then we start cracking up again and that’s when we start to notice that no one else around us seems to be consumed by our level of hysteria, so what are they doing wrong!?

Oh Christ, I started to lose my voice before we even made it through the first hour. I’m a fucking hyena at these places.

Guys, oh guys, let me tell you a story about this little old ride called Enterprise. It looks like a Ferris wheel laying on its side but then it starts spinning and before you know it, you are upside down and nothing has you strapped down! I have always loved this ride and I think it’s because it’s one of the first grown-up rides I rode on my own as a child and I felt like such a fucking bad ass.

But this one time, pre-third grade, I was at Kennywood with my friend Kristen and her family. I do not remember a single other thing about this day except riding the Enterprise with Kristen, and as I exited the car, it swung back and caught me on the back of my heel.

And it fucking killed, man.

I vaguely remember not being very comfortable with Kristen’s family so I didn’t want to cry in front of them, so I tried to downplay it but I was bleeding through the back of my (ruffled) sock. They must not have deemed it necessary for a trip to the first aid shack, because I have a VIVID memory of going back to  my house in South Park and having to soak my socked foot in the bathtub because my sock had adhered to the exposed wound thanks to the CONGEALED BLOOD.

It took so long for that cut to heal too, because of its location.

Now this ride is called the Volcano and it’s almost always closed — apparently they were having a hard time finding a part that they needed to repair it? Maybe I dreamt that? I’m not the Kennywood Insider, for fuck’s sake.

When we saw that it was actually opened, Chooch cried, “OMG I finally get to ride it?!”

People around us in line are always so jealous of our glamour lives.

When we boarded our desired car, Chooch tensed up.

“This is it? We just….sit here? There isn’t a seatbelt or a harness or CHAINS TO HOLD US DOWN WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN.”

I tried to explain that it was science-y physics centifiblahblah something or other, oh just shut up and enjoy the ride, my child!

Oh man, even the WHIRRING SOUND of this damn thing takes me back to better days, when people were losing pocket change on the Flying Carpet and the Pirate Ship didn’t literally make me seasick.

Our day was off to a great start, and I know this because we made it AT LEAST three hours before calling Henry!

****

This is taking me so long to write, because if we’re being frank here, I AM STALLING. I know that technically the calendar says we have a few more weeks of summer, but let’s be real: summer is done. School’s back in session. This day was our last hurrah and as soon as I put it in words, that’s it–the last thread of summer is going to be yanked from my soul.

Ugh. I’ll be back with tales of Lemon Equality and JOHNNY’S SISTER OOH LA LA.

First day of fifth grade, how did it come to this? I literally have to do nothing now in terms of getting him ready for school. Like, I wake him up. That’s it. No more micromanaging.

His friend Dimajio arrived early so they could play Xbox, just like last year, so at least some things are the same.

Omg I’m going to start crying on the trolley.

“Let’s try to go the whole year without the school calling,” I said to Chooch, hugging him goodbye on the sidewalk.

Dimajio laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen!”

Ugh, me either.

This concludes the obligatory “how did my kid get so old/where did the time go/lets go back five years” post. :(

Today was decidedly much better than yesterday even though I woke up on the exact same side of the bed so who even knows.

It started with good Anthony Green coffee, which Henry didn’t serve me in the intended cup it came with but don’t worry because I yelled at him to get back into the kitchen and make that right.
 

While I drank my Anthony Green coffee, Henry and I watched a documentary about Missy Franklin and Kara Lynn Joyce and I cried all my makeup off. (I’m not over the Olympics, wah.)

Then, after fixing my makeup, I had a reunion-type lunch with my friend Spring, who was a great friend of mine growing up but we lost touch after high school. Catching up with her gave me life!

Later in the afternoon, I collected Henry and Chooch and we went TO THE MALL which is always depressing because this is 2016 and I’m in a mall, but also because it looks like the zombie apocalypse every time we go there: more weeds sprouting through the cracks in the unused parking lot, more stores closed – scratch that, ENTIRE WINGS closed, and obviously barely any other human beings in sight.

But, there’s a Journeys there and we needed to get Chooch new shoes for school (tomorrow is the first day!).

“I hope SAM is there,” I said obsessively, which would have sounded more appropriate if I had braces too.

“Who’s Sam?” Henry asked, and I got really angry that he didn’t know.

“THE MANAGER AT JOURNEYS WHO LIKES DANCE GAVIN DANCE!” I cried. Ugh, try to keep up, Henry.

Anyway, Sam was there! I tried to play it cool and decided to just go my standard route of trying to blend into Henry’s non-descript shirt and not say a word.

“I like your shoes,” Sam said of my pink TOMS.

“THANKS YOU SOLD THEM TO ME,” I said, robotically probably. (BRB, It’s Britney Bitch is performing on the VMAs right now and I already sat through 79898 Beyoncé songs waiting for this.)

“I remember…Dance Gavin Dance, right?”

Henry’s eyes had rolled so far into his head that he was looking back into his SERVICE DAYS.

I was fanning my heart though because MUSIC CONNECTIONS are the best connections for me.

Meanwhile, Chooch’s wide ass cinder block Barney Rubble feet couldn’t find anything to squeeze into. I had suddenly become Cinderella’s stepmother and was trying to force him into being OK with the Vans hightops currently making him wince, but Henry stepped in and declared it a miserable fail and said we would have to go somewhere else that had a bigger kid selection, so we didn’t get to give Sam a sale and I was SO ANGRY.

I should have just bought myself a pair of shoes. I’m so dumb.

And then came ice cream, and my fat ass DGAF that it was twice in one weekend because it was so fucking hot out and I NEEDED IT.

Henry’s akimbo for that ice cream bimbo.

Came home and painted a ham sandwich because bitch I said I would.

“Mama Cass Vibes.” I told Henry to hang it up but it’s mysteriously still sitting on the coffee table so I’m not sure if he’s leaving me a message or what.

I’ve been drinking this Clown Shoes beer for literally three hours while watching the VMAs. I can’t chug that shit like I can chug wine, y’all.

These VMAs are such a fucking parody, I can’t stand it.

This whole day was soundtracked by the new Carly Rae Jepsen “Side B” bonus record that was released on Friday. My god, it’s pastel-tinged 1980s vibes.

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I honestly don’t know how she is, but she makes the most perfect 80s pop and there are days when I think back to seeing her last winter and I just start crying because I love her so much — don’t ever change, CRJ!

And now Sunday is nearly over, and I have way less brain cells thanks to the VMAs. Thanks, MTV! At least I got to see Michael Phelps!

ETA: the VMAs managed to end on a high note. I love Rihanna so much and Drake made it through traffic in time to present her with the Vanguard award and I really thought he was going to PROPOSE. C’MON DRAKE!!

Today has been pretty miserable, so miserable that I DIDNT EVEN WANT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE FOR ICE CREAM. (Don’t worry, Henry brought it back for me.)

I was laying on the couch being miserable and I kept telling Henry to please turn the channel because 2 Broke Girls was on and I’m sorry but every single voice was sodomizing me and I just couldn’t handle it for one moment more while Henry was slowly scanning the cable guide menu thing so I grabbed the remote and blindly put it on the first thing I saw which was a Mamas and Papas special on WQED – you know the kind of special, where they show a truncated documentary about the band, spliced with YOUR DONATION MAKES A DIFFERENCE!!! interruptions, where they try to wow you with a CD set that can be yours for the GENEROUS DONATION OF $256.

I love these things. We recently watched one on the Carpenters and I was in some weird 1960s fugue state for the next 6 days.

KEEP QUALITY TV ALIVE!

Thanks to Michelle Phillips, I fell down the Knots Landing rabbit hole. That was one of the shows I watched when I was a kid in the 80s, thinking it made me so cool and sophisticated because it was a grown-up show (along with Falcons Crest and Hunter, obvi). I remember watching some comedian on an HBO special at my Pappap’s house; he did lots of sight gags and pantomiming, etc, most of which went right over my head, until he tied knots in several pieces of ropes and tossed them in the air.

As they landed on the ground, he looked at the audience and said, “Knots landing.”

I thought it was the funniest shit ever, mostly because finally, I understood a thing he was doing.

Actually, I was just thinking about this guy at work a few weeks ago and asked Glenn if he knew who I was talking about because Glenn is old but he said no and that’s because Glenn doesn’t like humor.

[ETA: Bob Nelson! His name is Bob Nelson. Henry is better at Googling than me. My searches are too narrow. I’d get fired for that at work. WORK JOKE, YOU WON’T GET IT. (Actually, that’s not a joke.)]

(ETAx2: it was balloons, not ropes.)

Naturally, I had to look up the Knots Landing opening theme on YouTube, at which point my Joan van Arc hatred was reignited.

Fuck that bitch.

“When are they going to get the part where she dies?” I asked Henry, referring to Mama Cass, obviously.

“Um….the end?”

Once they got to the 1970s portion of the biopic, every time they would start a sentence with, “And then Mama Cass—” I would rush to say, “CHOKED ON A HAM SANDWICH!”

“That’s not really how she died,” Henry sighed.

“Yes it is. That’s how I drew the Mama Cass Glenn at work, so….”

So then it got to the part where Michelle Phillips nonchalantly talks about how Cass calls her one night after a show and is all, “OMG I’M SO HAPPY” and how surprising it was to hear the next day that Cass had died—

“EATING A HAM SANDWICH!!!” I cried as Michelle calmly said, “—in her sleep.”

Henry gave me a disappointed frown.

“Yeah, in her sleep, on a ham sandwich,” I argued.

“That’s not true, that’s just a rumor that the fat shamers started,” Henry sighed.

“No, here, I’ll google it—OK yeah, it says it’s an urban legend but that’s just because they’re trying to preserve her pride,” I explained.

By the end of the show, Michelle Phillips is talking about how she’s the only one left and—-

“Michelle Phillips killed them all! Michelle Phillips is the ham sandwich!” I screamed.

“Did you just tweet that out?” Henry asked, basically all of his energy drained by this point. You would think he would be used to my obsessive latching-on to the small things by now.

Like when I became obsessed with freeing some guy who went to some island and got accused of killing of a person and he totally didn’t do it because he was so handsome but this was like 2009 and I can’t remember what island or who he killed, or you know, his name.

But anyway, remember when Henry said “tweet that out”? God, what an ElderDork.

“I wonder why Cass’s daughter never sang?” Henry mused out loud.

“She could have been in Wilson Phillips!” I yelled.

“Yeah but then it might not have been called Wilson Phillips,” he pointed out.

“They could have been called H—”

“Ham Sandwich,” he finished for me, rolling his eyes.

I AM GOING TO LISTEN TO THE MAMA AND PAPAS ALL NIGHT NOW. I am not going to eat a ham sandwich though because ew, meat. I might actually paint a ham sandwich, though.

Also, what was up with some of those early album covers where their name was spelled Mama’s and Papa’s?! Who approved those?! Probably the same person who approves my blog posts! (Oh wait, that’s just me and my unwillingness to proofread.)

Now some Italian d-bag is singing for more WQED donations. What a fucking Saturday night. And to think I was just going to take some pills and go to bed at 5.

(Kidding. I don’t take pills. Because I don’t have pills.)

Ooh, I hope that Gino Vanelli concert re-airs at some point tonight!!

https://www.instagram.com/p/BJGmIzdgbWp/?taken-by=somnambulant_art

Boy, guys, was this Friday OFF THE CHAIN!

I mean, OFF THE HOOK!

I mean…it was really OFF ITS ROCKER.

First, the work day was shaping up to be preettttty fucking dull. But suddenly! Sue sent an email to the whole office:

Something about PEPPERS, REALLY HOT PEPPERS being up for grabs on the table by the kitchen.

At that moment, I caught a glimpse of Glenn in my periphery, rising from his desk and disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

I turned around and asked Todd, “OMG do you think Glenn is going to get pepper?! He got up awfully fast!”

“I thought so too at first,” Todd said, “but then I realized that the timing wasn’t right. He was already standing up whenever the email came in.” And then, “He doesn’t even get up that fast for cake.”

“Dammit, that’s true” I said, really hoping that Glenn was really in a huge rush to have first dibs on the HOT, REALLY HOT PEPPERS, imagining him body checking Terry out of the way, reigniting their feud from last summer.

“Did Glenn go to get some of those peppers?” Lauren asked from her desk in front of me.

“Apparently not, but we’re trying to cause speculation,” I admitted.

And then word finally traveled down to Amber2, who rose from her seat and called out to us, “Did Glenn get up for the peppers?”

This was A HUGE DEAL. WILL GLENN PEPPER OR NOT PEPPER?! Only time will tell.

Talk about scintillating ‘zine fodder!

“You guys, what an exciting Friday!” I laughed, and then we all giddily waited to see if Glenn would, in fact, come back with peppers.

AND OH LORD ALMIGHTY, HE DID!

He had one small red pepper in hand and we all fucking DIED.

He looked confused at first but then quickly wrote it off because he’s used to this hootenanny by now.

Then he put the pepper on my desk and everyone was starting to gather around and I was like, “Guys, I’m not eating this.”

And then that was that.

***

After work, Henry, Chooch, Judy and I met my mom and Corey at Bob Evans for dinner where we had a waitress who said “thank you” constantly and Chooch basked in the fact that his novelty has not yet worn off for my mom and she giggles at every idiotic thing he does.

HIS SCHTICK WILL GET OLD EVENTUALLY. TRUST.

Anyway, I put on the new Carly Rae Jepsen “B-Side” release and Judy screamed from the front seat, “WHO IS THIS, ERIN. OH. WELL, SHE CAN SING.”

CRJ, you’ve got Jude’s official seal of approval.

Meanwhile, at Bob Evan’s, they were out of chicken pot pie and Corey was SO SAD and Chooch acted like he never buttered a biscuit before and before he even ate the bitchin’ thing, the table looked like a biscuit battlefield and Henry frowned, wondering where he went wrong, living in a house with not one but TWO people who don’t understand how to properly use a butterknife.

Halfway through dinner, we all became aware of a fly that was buzzing around our table. When the waitress brought us the check, Judy gruffly asked, “You gonna give us a discount for that fly?!” The waitress just nervously laughed and apologized, but Judy wasn’t done talking about this.

“This place ain’t open 24 hours, so they should, you know, what d’ya call it….fumigate? They should do that when they close.”

“Yeah, maybe hang some fly strips,” Corey said and we all started cracking up but Judy seemed on board with that idea.

I’m pretty sure Henry has taken me to “restaurants” with fly strips hanging around, all appetizing and sanitary.

During one of our waitress’s last visits to our table, Judy suggested, “And you should tell them to do something about this broccoli. Terrible.”

If I hadn’t been so giddy to begin with, I might have tried to climb inside Henry’s frown and hide.

After dinner, we went to Target, where Judy screamed across an aisle, “WILL YOU BUY ME BENGAY??” and then held up a sheer blouse I was buying and asked, “Will you wear something under this or no?”

Well, I’m not wearing it to the Moulin Rouge, so….

And then Mat Kerekes solo album was released today, and it’s a real gift of sound: 

Anyway, today was pretty good when you add up all the moments.

2 comments

This week has been whack like crack* so let’s unwind with a video.

*(Except for Tuesday! Tuesday was the shit because Chooch and I went to Kennywood but today’s not the day for that because I’m lucky I can spell my name correctly right now.)

What you’re about to see (or hear, rather) happened last month and I think it’s safe to say that it was the highlight of the summer as far as Neighborhood Happenings go. Maybe tied with that lame church festival across the street.

Let me set the scene: I was home alone on a Saturday when I heard a loud, gutteral barking. It was a man’s angry voice, one that I had never heard before – it wasn’t Tourette’s, and it wasn’t Larry bitching about having Pokemon cards stolen.

And then it dawned on me – it was HOT NAYBOR CHRIS. I couldn’t believe it. In the too-many-years we have lived next door, I have not once heard that poor man raise his voice.

Then I heard another gutteral barking, which I recognized immediately as his wife-thing’s loud Yinzer throat-scrape. Look, I have heard her gone berserk plenty of times over the years, but this one sounded so sinister that my legs were actually shaking, kind of, and I didn’t want to get busted, so please enjoy the view of the few succulents my asshole cats have not killed yet, on account of them being too afraid of the kitchen sink.

Some things to note:

• The other male voice (the one accusing her of sexual harassment) belongs to the guy who lives on the other side of them, He was in the garage working on his car which is evidently another thing that Wife Thing hates.
• I think the catalyst to this argument was that HNC was washing his car and “oil was draining down the sidewalk” and DON’T YOU KNOW THE GRANDKIDS PLAY OUT HERE.
• I can’t figure out what she’s saying about the car parked in the driveway and “your little wifey….”
• SERIOUSLY HOW MANY TIMES DOES SHE SAY BULLSHIT?! I’ll send a prize to the first person who gives me the correct amount.
  • It probably won’t be a great prize though.
• This is the first time I’ve heard HNC fight back. Usually she goes off on her daughters and he just sits in the basement, huge headphones over his ears, solemnly playing his electric drums.
• Henry’s mom is scared of HNC for some reason and won’t talk to him unless Wife Thing is there too which is strange to me because I never got any rapey vibes from him.
• At one point, I considered calling the police.
• This was literally days after she had been screaming at Chooch over the sidewalk lights, and I was terrified of him coming home from the  neighbor kid’s house and encountering her after this, so when he finally came back home, I pulled him in the house, led him upstairs away from all the windows and hoarsely whispered, “STAY OUT OF THEIR YARD TODAY BC SHE MIGHT ACTUALLY CAPTURE YOU AND STUFF YOU INTO AN OVEN. THIS IS NOT A GOOD DAY. IF YOU WANT TO GO TO MARKIE’S, DO NOT WALK THROUGH HER YARD, CROSS THE STREET AND GO AROUND THE BLOCK IF YOU HAVE TO, I DON’T EVEN KNOW.”
• After the fight fizzled out, HNC and the neighbor guy went back to quietly working on their cars. Every once in a while, I’d hear the metallic sound of a tool hitting the cement, but it was clear that they were not ever, ever ever ever, never ever going to speak of what they had just endured.
• This is my brother Corey’s favorite video and he listens to it when he’s having a bad day.

I don’t know, it maybe wasn’t as exciting as when that drunk guy got concussed in front of my house two summers ago or the time Henry got to be a HIT&RUN HERO, but it was still pretty lit…fam.

In a bizarre turn of events, I think HENRY has a crush on ME now*?! He randomly showed up downtown to visit me on my lunch break and it felt really scandalous for some reason, like I was part of an illegal beverage deal? I kept tossing shifty glances all around me until finally I cracked and shouted, “OK THIS IS WEIRD GOODBYE” and I went back inside my dumb work-tower. 

Henry was also sending me totally clingy texts all day too so he either took some estrogen up the ass or he’s cheating on me and is overcome with The Guilt. 

Gotta go. Judy is trying to tell me things about America’s Got Talent. “SHE USED TO BE A MAN! I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. NOW SHE’S A COMEDIAN. SHES FROM FLORIDA” and then some guy sang “In the Air Tonight” and Judy doesn’t understand why all the judges love him. “He just came out of a depression or something, I don’t know what bis story is.”

*(I had a crush on him last week. Our crush cycles never align.)

Bun had been haunting Gillcrest for the last 10 decades,

No one had bothered him, not even the wool-clad Mormon mission-maids.

But then one Tuesday a stranger arrived with a bag—

The new resident of Gillcrest, it was a horned stag!

Bun watched this scene unfold from a darkened upstairs window,

and wondered, “How in the hell can I chase off this bimbo?”

The new resident brought with him nine pounds of lunch meat in a chest,

three truckfuls of IKEA and paint swatches tucked near his breast.

His name was Bart and he was quick to make himself at home,

Tucking into bed with a trashy airport tome.

Bun waited for Bart to close his eyes for the night

Before pulling out a nightmarish delight.

A mannequin, green like slime and with nary an arm

Out from the closet to cause all sorts of harm.

When Bart arose the next morn’ with a stretch and a spit,

His heart skipped a beat at the sight of the broad’s plastic tit.

“I swear this tart wasn’t here when I turned off the light,”

He swiped at the beads of sweat along his lip, butt clenching in fright.

Bart fled from his room and sank down into a corner,

Wondering if he was dealing with the supernatural or a burglar.

Bart thought he heard some blips, some gurgles, and a bleet,

Coming from the basement far under his feet.

“That’s probably just the house groaning, or feral cats under the foundation, boning,”

Bart laughed nervously, thinking he might call his Mother for some chaperoning.

Oh, but it was Bun, partaking in his daily routine:

A rousing game of Pacman and a few swigs of hooch at 10:14.

Bun floated back upstairs just in time to hear Bart on the phone,

Talking to his mommy who made him feel a little less alone.

She said to vacate the spooks behind the peregrine doors,

“You need to redecorate, and make this house yours!”

Bart assessed his new home from a red corner chair,

and thought, “How can I change things up around here?

I’ll knock down this wall and tear up that shag carpet,

and turn that grand bathtub into a germ-filled ball pit.”

It was like reliving his midlife crisis of 1994,

Which came with a Porsche and an affair with a Gabor.

(Not Zsa Zsa.)

“He wants to put a ball pit right here in my loo?

I gotta get rid of him with something stronger than ‘boo.'”

Bun needed to sit down and have a good thought.

So he went and did just that on the master pot.

Bun considered going the poltergeist route,

Tossing around dishes, chucking an old rubber boot.

Not wanting to break his things, he went with something more malleable,

And summoned an army of one of each stuffed animal.

Teddy bears and puppies and some weird doll-thing,

Surged upon Bart, pinning him to the wall like one big butterfly wing.

“It was probably just a fluke, something-something about gravity,”

Bart’s mom sighed over top of her daytime TV.

“You know what you need, a good healthy lay.

Go call up Bernice from 1-900-PONYPLAY.”

Bart knew she was right, some company would do him good,

So he tried to fix himself up, he did what he could.

He lubed up his horn and filled his satchel with smelling salts,

Then when downstairs to wait for Bernice and all of her faults.

(Daddy issues.)

After waiting in his chair for more than an hour,

Bart thought he saw something, a figure the trees tried to devour.

“Is that Bernice?” Bart thought, bringing his binoculars  up to his eyes,

(He always kept them handy in case a neighbor bared their thighs.)

But what he saw didn’t resemble a hag rode hard and put away wet,

No, this looked more like…somebody’s Easter pet.

And what was that, just behind the bunny and to the left?

A head in a ditch, the chin had a cleft.

Was that Bernice, beheaded by this cuniculus killer

But Bart rubbed his eyes, and the bunny was gone, nothing out there but filler.

Bun came back into the house and changed his clothes,

Killing that stripper bitch left him bloody and anxious for her to decompose.

Bun knew that if he played his cards just right,

He’d have his estate back by the end of third night.

Just a few more moves left in this game by his pawn

Before Bart would be shitting his pants on the front lawn.

Bun spent time in the game room with his clown crew

While elsewhere in the house, Bart’s paranoia grew.

Was this some real life Amityville Horror ghost attack,

Or just another Vietnam acid flashback?

The bedside phone rang on Bart’s third night,

Not once but thrice, the trill giving his  faint heart a bite.

The first two calls were white noise, static silence,

Not even the slightest semblance of a sentence.

But the third call exploded with the angry bellow of Bun:

“Bitch you’re in my house, best run motherfucker, run!”

That was enough to get Bart to peace the fuck out, see,

So he called up a ride from the Teenage Hooker taxi company.

He waited and waited by the window, so harried and eager,

His hooves percussing the floor to the beat of Bob Seger.

“A real man would have lasted more than one day times three,”

He could already hear his mother say in between sips of her tea.

But mother can suck a dick, Bart thought as he ran out of the door,

To jump in the back of the cab driven by a whore.

(Out of Uber territory.)

Bun rejoiced on the deck beneath the sun’s bright rays.

“I got my house back and I have lunch meat for days!”

*****************************************************************

This last weekend was relatively boring, which I guess is what can happen when you purposely decide to make zero plans. 

Just watched a bunch of Olympics and then straight up cried my eyes out last night during the closing ceremonies. I won the gold medal in denial. (Monica said that’s because I didn’t have to go up against that Linda Lasky and she’s totally on point with that assessment!)

Other than that, we drove around aimlessly through South Park on Saturday looking for decent pavilions for the upcoming pie party because I apparently chose a really popular day and both of our go-to pavilions were already rented, along with 85% of the other ones. 

Don’t worry, we found one. 

Then later we went to Loving Hut for some meatless buffet action and Henry is now suddenly an expert at soy-based foodstuffs. 

Sunday was YARD WORK day at the Gillcrest which really only affects Henry. Don’t worry – he likes it. He gets to talk to deer and turkey and look up into the sky at random birds. 

I feel like we also ate a lot of cookies all weekend too and then I wonder why I gained a pound. 

Anyway, here are some pictures. 

Chooch had this shirt screenprinted at Warped Tour. Don’t worry – he knows he can’t wear it to school, God. 

The theme of this year’s pie party is “exotic.” One of my old high school friends asked if it’s family friendly and I was like “Pffft why wouldn’t it be” and then remembered the Facebook event page’s cover picture is a pie that says whore, so….

I ate one of these because fuck the patriarchy. Henry was so smug when he bought them, too. 

I’ve had snapchat since its inception and never bothered with it until one day when it occurred to me that waaaaaait a minute, this is just another platform on which to harrass Henry. Duh. 

Chooch is coming around to the idea that there is a new Corgi puppy where Maverick used to be. :(

This fucker. 

Chooch got a free cat cookie over the weekend and still cried about life. Biggest whiner ever. 

On that note, it’s Monday morning and I’ve got my own shit to whine about to all of the lucky people here at work so ciao for now!

Watching Olympic rhythmic gymnastics this morning and it will never not remind me of Get In Shape, Girl, the pastel “fitness” kits for girl-kids in the 80s. I had several of them but the ribbon one was by far my favorite. 

If I had known back then that this was an actual Olympic sport, maybe I would have kept it up. I was so good at twirling that shit! All I needed to learn was rhythm, grace, teamwork, and you know, actual gymnastics. Instead I just got fat. Oh well.